Chapter 6: Red and The Melancholy

Orphana is a tricky asteroid. I didn't pay much attention when the news broke a few years ago that telescopes in Mexico had located this strange rock with an even stranger orbit. Truth be told, the news went unnoticed, apart from the aficionados of space (Jim must have heard of it). All they said at that time was that the rock was no danger to Earth, even though they couldn't really predict its orbit. I wondered what made them think the meteorite had broken apart from this specific rock, but more will surely follow tomorrow or this week.

'Gee, I knew that rock was trouble', said Jim with a big smile, showing a mouth full of white teeth and removing his cap. 'I even told my kid he would get to witness something big in his lifetime', he said that as he jumped sideways, but onto the opposite side of the narrow field track from where I was standing. He said something else after that, but the car he had just let pass blew its horn and I didn't understand a word of what he'd said. Two diversions in a row from what this poor soul wanted to talk about: first me, shifting my attention towards the TV reporter, and now this car - several cars, actually - honking and attracting everyone's attention.

I looked across the track to spot Jim, who kept pointing his finger at someone behind the rows of cars. 'That's the Secretary of State and Red Nelson in the black Mercedes at the back of the row', he said with the confidence of someone who'd been here longer than I had and had probably seen the car when it arrived too. Red Nelson is like the rock star of Astroscience. This guy was responsible for the resurrection of TV programs about space - the modern Carl Sagan, they call him. I like a book he wrote, called 'The Elegant Cosmos', a cross between science and spirituality - but backed by science facts and numbers - in which he speculates that, in order for a proof to be true, it most and foremost needs to be beautiful. He stepped out of the car again to sign autographs and wave his arms at the crowd. Behind the immaculate white teeth and the bravura he was exhibiting in the moment, I could see a pair of sad eyes looking for solace and peace. Only then I could see the resemblance with Carl Sagan.

'Are there more to follow, professor?', shouted a voice from the crowd.

'I hope not', Red replied with a coy smile, without taking his eyes off a piece of paper he was signing. Red is what his mother was called him and it had stuck. His real name is Brian George Nelson and I think he would have been taken more seriously in science if he hadn't had been named after a wrestler. However, just like Jim, Red had always tried to find a balance between his own frail soul and the need to put on a show in order to receive validation from others and, as is often the case when you put these two in conjunction, these people either appear like a clowns or a madmen. Both Jim and Red, incidentally are a couple of clowns.

All these scenes made me realize how small and insignificant I was. There were the limos, the vice-president, and now Red Nelson. I could have talked to this guy today had I been someone. And I think we would have had a pretty decent conversation. I may not be the most articulate man in a face-to-face conversation , but I am passionate about what I do, and I need to spend time with people like Red Nelson, and not Old Fowley, back in Sonoma County. 'It's all your fault' said Ella once. Maybe more than once, actually. 'Why don't you do something about it? You want something from life you go grab it by the scruff of the neck', was the speech. Why didn't she follow her own advice? She kind of lingered around me, full of insecurities and never having the energy to overcome her own fears. But today I felt the blow of her words. These men were grabbing it by the scruff of the neck. Red did it. Even Jim did. At least he woke up at 4 in the morning and drove all the way from Bakersfield. He may have felt he hadn't done much with his life but he was taking every day as it came and that felt like an accomplishment for someone like me. I couldn't even go to Pinchalada Peak and see the site from a distance. I felt like nothing was working my way. Yes, I know, all of these problems they're all in my head, and maybe you're better at dealing with them than I am, but I want to have a moan now and that'll be that. To be even more honest, I kind of drifted away from Jim after thinking 'I don't have the energy to deal with all this shit'. I came to see the crater. That's what I wanted, and nothing else, and I couldn't even get that. I sort of moved in circles, scampering about, barging and elbowing to catch a glimpse of happiness, but I wasn't allowed at the table with the big boys. I fuckin' hate that I'm starting to be like my old schoolmates who, whenever they were denied a pleasure, they would say' wait, till I make it fucking big'. And that's what I felt like saying right now. I was always thinking 'nah, you don't need all this - fame, money and all this shit. Just enjoy the moment'. Well, now I wasn't allowed to enjoy the one thing that was giving me some momentary peace of mind.

Jim behaved like a good sport. I ran into him again as I was preparing to head back home. He asked me if I wanted to join him for a beer at a local pub and I passed. I mumbled an excuse even I couldn't understand, but Jim just smiled and said 'I understand'. And he was also the one who helped me find a ride back home. 'There's a charter bus on this road every half hour to Sacramento', he said just as I imagined he would: happy to deliver good news in times of trouble. That's all I needed. I knew that once I got to Sacramento, the rest would be easy, which was the case.

I left Tahoe around 11 pm. As the bus swerved left, abandoning the woods which bordered the lake, I saw the crash site from a distance. It was lit by a couple of floods mounted by the Army, and three scientists, dressed in yellow jackets, were still digging for debris around the site. The driver took a route different than the one I'd taken on the way to the lake. From that distance I couldn't make out whether it was 30 feet wide, as Jim had said, but I saw a hole and torn, scattered trees around it. And that was it. Maybe two or three seconds. Then the bus swerved left again, paused to brace itself for the straight road ahead, and then cut through the hills at 60 mph, all the way to Sacramento. Again I tried to resuscitate my phone battery and, after tens of unsuccessful tries during the day, it finally turned on. I only managed to see: ' Five unseen messages', all from Audrey, and one missed call from an unknown number; then it shut down again. My back killed me all the way. All this time traveling, standing and moving about finally took its toll. I had the feeling spikes and spears would come out of my body at anytime, piercing through my skin.

I arrived home around 2am and went straight to my room to plug the charger into my phone. The missed call was from Audrey and all the rest of the messages too. She admonished me for not taking her to Tahoe, even though she was the one to say 'no' in the first place. She hadn't had a good day. She'd had fights with everyone - her dad, her stepmom and even her grandparents. She felt rage at being misunderstood by all of them; and it didn't surprise me. Her parents and grandparents are twice and respectively three times her age. They've never left Sonoma County and are used to doing things the way they have been doing it forever. Gosh, I feel like I don't belong here, let alone Audrey, who's lived here all her life. I can only imagine how hard it is for kids who are stuck and encouraged not to leave and get to know the world.

Three people know about my affection towards Audrey: Tim Schurlley, an old schoolmate, with whom I lost contact during my stay in New York; Buck Graves, a former Math teacher; and Eli Waltau, 'carpenter and occasional drifter', as he calls himself. All three I can call friends, for lack of a better word, or they're at least people I go back a long time with, and all three challenged me to the same question: 'Why do you love Audrey?' Today, at this particular moment, even I have to admit I'm struggling to answer this question. I'd been missing her throughout the day, I'd asked her out several times before that (and she said 'no', she didn't want to come to Tahoe) and now she's bickering about how lonely and lost she feels, and that no-one cared about her. 'You don't know yet if you care about her, you just want to fuck her', Eli told me a couple of weeks ago. I disagree. There is something about this girl and I need to find out more. Call it whatever you want - instinct, I suppose - but something plays at a far more galactic level in all the few moments I've spent with her, especially in the pauses and silences between the words we've used, when the hearts were betraying the same energy as the one of exploding stars in the far galaxies up above our heads, or of those hidden, at a molecular level, in the abyss behind her green eyes.

'I mean, he could've at least showed he cared just a bit', she said when she spoke of how cold Dr. Richardson had been when he discussed with them their latest blood tests with them. I then tried to trim around the conversation, offering support on how most doctors are oblivious to pain and how they don't want to talk specifics with their patients, but she refuted this as simply 'untrue'. 'Of course, they don't discuss things, because they're not challenged by their patients to do so', she replied without letting me finish my thought. I then tried to navigate the murky waters in which I felt I had been thrown, and suggested that most doctors will give you shitloads of pills to take in order to fulfill contract obligations with pharmaceutical companies, a thought Audrey had shared as well, only for her to have a different answer now: 'You can't just think like that. Some of those pills work and not all doctors are scoundrels'. I felt she was scared, but I lost patience. I was just too tired after today. She was showing me no affection so I just wanted to go to bed and not hear anything anymore, when, all of a sudden and totally off-topic: 'Maybe we can go and have a walk tomorrow together. What do you say?' I didn't reply immediately just to make her believe I may have other plans...

'Hmm... Tomorrow? Let me see...'

'I mean, if you've got stuff to do, don't worry about it. Let's do it some other time' she said and almost quit our Facebook conversation.

'No. No. I would love to. I think it's a great idea.

'Good, it's settled. I'll bake a pie and we can go on a picnic. See ya'.

'You don't have to', I replied. Too late. She diidn't see the message.

My back is killing me. I think it's because I start to relax once I've received some good news.